Spitfire
by Mewgia Mirrorcoat
Summary: She was the pup. She was Bryce Cousland's little spitfire. And she will never let Rendon Howe forget it, not for the final flame filled minute of his life.


Disclaimer: Dragon Age: Origins is owned by Bioware and other associates.

A/N: This was originally meant to be very humorous, but somehow it turned into almost pure drama with humorous moments. The entire premise for writing this ended up being... well, an event in the game with a slight twist. ) I hope all the fire allusions aren't too overdone.

* * *

"Well, look here. Bryce Cousland's little spitfire, all grown up and still playing the man."

She had expected to find him here. And she had wanted to. This man, this betrayer, this loathsome being whose ambition and jealousy had engulfed his heart. And now rumors of his actions over the past year, the evidence found in the dungeons and the chambers of this very estate; all she desired now was his end.

An end she was more than willing to give him. Steel was not enough. She had her own ideas for revenge.

Howe's arms were crossed, a sneer on his face as he gazed over her little party. "I thought Loghain made it clear that your pathetic family is gone and forgotten."

She felt a cruel smile jerk the edge of her mouth. _Far from it, Howe. Their legacy stands here. _

"You won't forget," she spoke, letting the sparks of anger within her catch light. "Their memory drove me to you."

The man laughed. "Your parents died on their knees, your brother's corpse rots in Ostagar, and his brat was burned on a scrap heap along with his Antivan whore of a wife. And what's left?" his eyes stared directly back at her in contempt. "A fool husk of a daughter likely to end her days under a rock in the Deep Roads."

He motioned to the armored man beside her. She could practically sense Alistair's sense righteous justice emanating back.

"Even the Wardens have gone. You're the last of nothing. This is pointless. You've lost."

_You can always relight a flame, even with the barest of embers. All you need is some care and good kindling. _

There was care. It came from lost moments before the battle at Ostagar, nights at the camp, ale in the taverns, and words spoken between comrades. Kindling came from a sense of duty, the satisfaction in seeing wrongs righted, and goals accomplished as the army grew.

Right now, some particularly good tinder stood right before her.

She leveled her eyes with him, letting that fire within her grow and awaken.

"I know your game. No shadows, no lies. Just you and me."

Howe's face calmed, but she knew. She knew the hatred building behind that crooked visage, and whatever conflict awaited before her prize was about to come.

"There it is," he murmured. There was a growing snarl in his voice. "Right there. That damned look in the eye that marked every Cousland success that held me back. It would appear that you've made something of yourself after all. Your father would be proud."

His hands were reaching for the twin blades on his back. His guards had their hands on their swords. She answered in turn by echoing him, knowing her companions did the same.

They all knew what was about to start, even as Howe spoke once more.

"I, on the other hand, want you dead. More than ever."

She let a demonic grin grace her features, almost laughing at the carnage she was prepared for.

"Good. The same speaks for you."

They struck. Steel met steel, the sound of clashing blades ringing in the stone room. The two other rogues fought, whirlwinds together as daggers flashed and metal sang. Their warrior watched for them, shielding any holes in their flurried attacks, his own sword arm more than powerful enough to cleave heads of his own. They worked in perfect tandem, the formation just as malleable and devastating as it had been since the team of three rogues and one warrior was made.

They left Howe to her and she reveled in the fight.

Excitement pumped at the edge of her skin, fire alight in her core and dancing in her blood. She loved the heated rush that came and the meditative trance her mind settled into. Everything seemed so much simpler. There was nothing but the fight, the momentum of her body, the heightened awareness of everything, the burning need to press forward until completion.

Not until the twelfth basic combat lesson did she discover it. Not until her mother and father deemed her ready to begin arms training did she realize how much she loved it. Not until she and her brother began their friendly rivalry did she realize what it meant to her. It was part of being a Cousland, she had always been told, tradition that they learn the fighting arts and hold themselves in battle. It was of great importance that they learn control, the balance between power and finesse, that which served not only when holding a blade, but when governing their people. They had to know how to extend, withdraw, and keep their flames strong.

That was all gone now, gone except for her. The legacy lived within her, and she fully intended to hold it dear with the memories of her lost family. Even if it died with her, she now had a duty, along with those that came with her role as a Grey Warden, to keep the traditions of the Couslands from flickering out.

A strike, parry, dodge, counter. A blade to the neck, a quickstep away. A low kick, stab to the elbow, a thrust of the daggertip at a crack in the armor. Howe was breathing heavily now, his movements slower, more clumsy. He was older, not as nimble as she. It would all burn away, his wickedness, his envy, his very being until it made way for the new. His death would be another beginning, a rebirth, and she would be its creator…

A final strike was enough. Howe fell, his blades clattering to the floor as he desperately held his stomach. She knelt down and made a quick slash above his heel just in case, ignoring the cry he gave.

The sounds of battle were gone now, with only footsteps coming towards her. The guards and mages were gone. Now her companions watched as she stood over her family's murderer to pass judgment.

He seemed pathetic and weak to her now, but she nearly admired his boldness as he looked up at her, clutching at where blood poured onto the ground.

"Maker spit on you…" he cried, hatred still distorting his face even as he lay dying. "I… deserved… more…"

She leaned down towards him, the world and her mind far too clear. The fire within her had grown during the battle, now a wrathful inferno ready at her command.

"You do," she spoke, soft with barely contained rage. Howe's eyes widened. "I bequeath to you a last gift from the Couslands."

And she stood up, opened her mouth, and let the inferno escape from within to consume him in a torrential blaze.

* * *

_The little girl pouted as the bowl was placed before her._

"_No! No more soup! I'm tired of cold soup!"_

"_You know you wouldn't be in this position had you not decided to hold that contest with your brother," her mother shook her head._

"_And he is much better at control than you pup," her father joined in, eyes retaining some amusement despite the circumstances of his poor daughter. "But you wouldn't be the first Cousland to spend a good week eating nothing but cold soup."_

"_But Fergus has never had to!"_

"_Fergus has never burnt his throat."_

"_See," the boy in question stuck his tongue out. "I'm better at it then you."_

"_No you're not! Your fire looks like it came from a dead weasel! Mine's like real dragonfire!"_

"_Well that real dragonfire got your throat burned!"_

"_And set the stable on fire," their father muttered, half exasperated, half affectionate._

_The little girl ignored him. "As soon as my throat's better, I'm challenging you again!"_

"_Like where, the guest bedroom? You can't just breathe fire wherever you feel like it. And just because your fire is bigger doesn't mean you're better! You need control!"_

_She spat a tuft of flame at him._

"_See? I can control it!"_

"_That's barely anything! It's always that or a bloody inferno - "_

"_Language, Fergus," his father murmured in his direction just as a slightly larger flame escaped the boy's mouth._

_Their mother looked very unamused._

"_No spitting fire at the table!" she scolded. Both brother and sister immediately settled, seeming properly ashamed. "You two had best behave yourselves. This is our family secret, remember?"_

"_Yes Mother," the two dutifully repeated._

_The woman still shook her head, turning to her husband. "Surely you weren't this much trouble growing up."_

"_Oh, I had my share of burnt throats and confused guards with flaming smallclothes. And the day I showed you the Cousland family secret…"_

_His wife laughed at that, finally picking up her fork. "Of course," she smiled. "I recall being quite surprised that day. Pity you nearly burned the library down."_

"_Yes, looking back it would have been a much better idea to have shown you outside."_

_Both adults shared a long content look as though memories of younger days drifted between them. Then they both sighed at their children, who were quietly eating their respective meals._

"_Really Bryce, I'm worried for them. They'll scare off any suitors for sure."_

_The man just chuckled. "It will be fine! They've many years ahead of them and I'm sure all throat burning and fire sneezing will vanish soon enough once they've gotten further in their training."_

"_We're right here," the boy glared at his parents. Then he tilted his head. "Flaming smallclothes?"_

_His sister made a distasteful shudder as she spooned more of the soup into her mouth. She was quite unhappy with her predicament and just hoped that her father's words were true. And who cared about boys, she was happy to scare them off._

"_Dragons can't have this much trouble with fire," she angrily stabbed at one of the potatoes, where it slipped out from beneath her spoon and nearly launched out of the bowl._

"_They do when they're first learning, pup," her father replied kindly._

_She scowled at him. "But dragon pups don't burn their throats!"_

"_Likely not," the man conceded, but the smile on his face spoke more than simple agreement. "But they're not very good at their gift yet. No matter how powerful their flame is, they must learn to control it lest they accidentally burn down the castle."_

_There was a slightly more serious edge to his gaze now. The little girl watched him, aware of the change; even her mother and brother noticed, glancing at the man with some curiosity. It meant something important, this moment at the table._

"_That's how it is with all power. Those with it can easily destroy. The ability to use it with care, for the protection and service of your people… that is the duty they hold. That is why these pups practice. It is so they learn not to harm the land or themselves with their power, to instead govern with wisdom and balance. That is why one day, instead of little spitfires, they will become dragons."_

* * *

"Elissa! Elissa!"

She groaned, feeling both weakened and empty. She realized that she no longer stood, but instead sat on the floor, her body leaned against someone tall and covered in metal.

"I'm all right," she murmured, trying to pull herself back to the world around her. "A little weary, perhaps."

Her voice sounded hoarse and something seemed a bit crackly. There was a pain that came with it too, familiar yet associated with strong dislike and cold soup.

She let out a small laugh. "I believe I've burnt my throat. I haven't done that since I was a child."

"We'll have Wynne look at it when we get back," a female voice replied, soothing and melodic.

"That sounds excellent… maybe some cold soup would be nice…"

Cold soup. Her family. Howe.

Her eyes shot open and she sat up, staring at the unrecognizable charred corpse before her. The inferno, that rage, all the pent up emotions that had stirred and awoken and been released upon this betrayer.

"It's over," she said simply. "It's over."

It seemed surreal to her, even as Alistair pulled her away and Leliana applied poultices to her wounds. Her family's murderer, once friend, dead. She should be happy, glad that this part of her life was now closed and she could move on, do her duty as a Grey Warden, kill the archdemon…

But her mind was frozen instead. She felt so cold, even with the sweat from the battle and fire still dripping from her brow. She did not understand why. Howe's death should have freed her. She had reveled in the fight, taken pride in the gradual breaking of her opponent, let the fire dance within her as it always did. Even the death itself was one she had dreamed of for days, the Cousland's gift being the finale of their killer's end.

Then she remembered and she began laughing, realizing it.

_Bryce Cousland's little spitfire. I'm not so little anymore, but I'm certainly not a dragon. Just a silly spitfire. A silly spitfire who knows they are dead and knows she must move on but just wants her family back – _

She felt Leliana's gentle embrace, then Alistair's gauntleted hand. Zevran knelt before her, a key dangling playfully in his fingers but the look in his eyes soft and understanding.

Something flickered within her. A tiny flame lit from dying embers.

"Thank you," she whispered. "All of you."

They helped her stand and returned her daggers. She sheathed them, suddenly feeling extremely foolish as she realized something else.

"I… suppose I owe you all an explanation," she coughed, giving a weak smile to her comrades.

Zevran crossed his arms, an eyebrow raised. "Indeed you do," he replied, sounding more curious than anything. "He called you a spitfire before, but… well I don't think any of us knew you could actually…"

"Spit fire?" Alistair supplied.

She smiled, gingerly touching her throat.

"Well… it's a Cousland family secret," she began, still feeling the rawness in her voice. "One we forbidden to show or tell anyone about unless we were betrothed actually, that kind of secret. All our personal attendants in Highever were sworn to secrecy. Apparently we were descended from dragons or so the legend goes."

"And I thought it had to do with your family's warrior tradition," Leliana giggled. "Given that… display, I can't say the legend is completely false."

She only had dear warmth and gratitude for those with her. "Regardless, I would appreciate it if you could keep this quiet, if for my sake."

Alistair gave a hearty chuckle. "Of course. No doubt it would only bring unwanted trouble. We won't speak a word of it, promise. Right?" he nodded at Leliana and Zevran, who replied with equally emphatic replies.

It made her relieved. "Thank you," she spoke, feeling that tug in her chest again.

Then she gazed at them all, settling back into her role as leader of the mission.

"I believe we have a queen to rescue," she stated.

She led them out of the room, leaving behind vengeance and casting forth anew. In some ways it felt as though the fire had burned more than her enemy, but something else within. She could think of this as the end, finally, though her heart could never fully recover. She herself still needed time after everything, from the loss of her family to this inferno here, yet she knew she could walk forward. She had to for the sake of Fereldan.

Elissa had entered that room as Bryce's little spitfire. She had emerged ready to become a dragon.


End file.
